Scraps
by daisyink
Summary: Collection of drabbles, written for various pairings.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
A/N: A collection of drabbles I've written for various pairings. Harry/Draco, Ron/Draco.

_should have _

Thinking back on it, Harry knew he should have known. Should've seen the way Draco's eyes followed that shock of red hair across the room—the way his smile never quite directed itself at him—and the way he never really meant what he said the way he said it.

When Draco said, "I'll see you after Potions, Potter," it didn't necessarily mean he'd see him indefinitely. There was an unspoken warning, an afterthought, at the end of each of his utterances: 'I'll see you after Potions, Potter, _but only if I don't get distracted by something else first._'

And Harry should've known that when Draco had told him he loved him, he really meant 'I love you, Potter, _at least until I find someone better._'

The day that Draco never showed up after Potions, Harry knew he'd found his someone better—and it was his best friend Ron.

_.finis_


	2. Lies

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, there'd probably be a lot less plot and much more fangirly squee-ing.  
A/N: Yet another...drabble! H/D this time.

_it's okay_

Draco Malfoy is a born liar—and a good one, too. Even when almost all of his schemes backfire on him, he still manages to somehow dodge complete responsibility of his actions. And no one knows, either, because that's just how good a liar he is.

There is a trick, though, to deciphering his lies—because underneath all of them, there is a thread of truth, a hint or two, of his real intentions. And Harry, after years of observation, can sometimes make out more than Draco lets on.

This is why, when it was a widespread fact that Draco Malfoy had received the Dark Mark, Harry bears him no grudges.

And when Draco arrives, years later, to attack the headquarters of the Order—and manages to kill many of his friends—Harry does not do anything about it, just smiles sadly as if to say, "It's okay Draco, I understand, I know you don't want to do this."

One day, when the war is almost over and Draco's side is losing, Harry meets Draco in an abandoned Muggle alley and smiles, a smile filled with sadness, regret, and lost time. And even when Harry sees the green light shooting out of Draco's wand, and filling his vision, he only smiles, and his eyes tell Draco that "It's okay, I understand, I know you don't want to do it, really."

Draco, soaked to the skin and trembling, whispers, "I hate you."

He's lying.

_.finis_

Won't you please click the little blue button and practice the _subtle art of reviewing_? xD


	3. looking

**Disclaimer: **Yeah yeah, the sky's blue and I don't own HP. Got it.  
A/N: Another drabble. Because I'm just too lazy to write an actual fic xD

_looking_

I saw you last night—you were sniffling, as if you were trying to keep yourself from crying, and you couldn't seem to stop shivering. I wanted so much to come out and hold you, comfort you, reach out to you…but no. You would only turn me away (and that's why I always watch—just watch).

It's always been that way for me; for the both of us. I could look, but not touch; not when it came to anything other than insults and physical harm. Because, hey: you're Ron Weasley, and I'm Draco Malfoy, and we can't be anything but mortal enemies, can we?

It's not like you need my attention, anyway, or my comfort. You have Potter and the Mud—Granger; after all, the Trio is always there for each other, and you never need anyone else for long.

And I suppose, after all that time I spent watching and looking, but not acting, I'd maybe forgotten how to act around you. So I guess that's why, when you turned to me for the first time with something other than hatred in mind, all I did was stare until you walked away.

After that, you disappeared; and after years of seeing but not touching, I finally stopped looking.

_.finis_


	4. bleed

**Disclaimer: **I don't own it.  
Summary: It's been years since Harry's seen him...

* * *

**bleed**

_and as you passed by  
i began to cry over things that I did not say_

I saw you today.

You were sipping coffee, and reading a newspaper (I bet you only read the comics, like you always used to). You were alone, but you looked—how can I say it? Content. As if you had finally had life figured out, like you said you wanted to.

(It was at the top of your list. Or at least back then.)

I watched you for a second, and then continued walking to work. Like you, I was alone; but I wasn't happy.

That night, for the first time, my bed felt too big for just one person.

_.finis_

It could be just anyone, but it's Harry/Draco. Draco's the happy one, by the way XD


	5. malfoys

**Disclaimer: **Don't own it.  
A/N: I got this weird, vaguely formed idea in my head--about how even though Draco might have changed, and he seems like a completely different person, he's still a Malfoy. And that would never change, at least for him. This half-formed, piece-y drabble is the result.

* * *

_malfoys_

Draco Malfoy did not consider love as one of the most primary of emotions. He indulged occasionally, but power always came first. His lust for power—to be _remembered_—overcame his need to be loved. "I'm a Malfoy, Harry," he would tell his lover when asked _why _he always had to have more. "It's who I am."

It was the Malfoy way—and he had never known anything else.

_..fast-forward two months.._

It was dusk, and two figures faced each other on an empty field.

"Why are you doing this, Draco?" Harry whispered. His eyes were a vivid green—awash with haunted abandonment. "You said you loved me." Harry almost sounded plaintive.

Draco sneered. "Just because I love you, doesn't mean I'm not willing to get rid of you."

And he did.

He may have loved the git, but he had always been a Malfoy first.

_.finis_


	6. he loves me

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.  
A/N: Prepare for an overdose of fluff. Because that's what you're getting; don't like, don't read. And the pairing is, as always, Harry/Draco.

* * *

_he loves me_

A voice coming from behind the bushes—the faint sound of flowers, or some kind of plant, being picked from their stems—and was that _Harry _talking?

"He loves me." A pause; the faint, faint, sound of a flower petal ripping. "Oops—he loves me not." Another pause. "He loves me."

"…Harry?" Hermione asked, standing in front of her friend and looking utterly bewildered.

"What are you doing?" she asked, though she had a pretty good idea already.

"Oh, picking flowers," he said vaguely. "If you're going to stay, sit beside me. Don't want anyone to catch you or anything."

"Right," she said. "Right," she said again, as if to make sure. She sat next to Harry.

He began to pick flowers again, taking off their petals one at a time. "He loves me." A pause. "He loves me not." Another pause. "He loves me."

After ten flowers (and _all _resulting suspiciously with 'he loves me'), Hermione saw that Harry had had his wand out. For picking. Flowers. A _wand_. She began looking at the flowers that circled him, waiting to be picked, and counted their petals.

And each one. _Each one_, had an odd number of petals. _Odd_, which in Harry-talk meant _he loves me_.

Hermione smiled to herself and left before Harry would catch her snooping, thinking, _the lovesick fool_; _Draco could've told him the same thing, and without all the flower-killing too. _Laughing, she joined Ron, not daring to tell him what it was that she found so funny.

_.finis_


	7. he likes that

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter. In any way.  
A/N: I really don't know what this is--just...something, and I'm actually rather fond of it. Uh, review? XD

* * *

_he likes that_

Despite what many people may think, Harry isn't really naïve or oblivious to everything. He sees things, all right; he is observant and notices a lot of things many people just pass by. He just chooses to focus on the good things, like his best friends falling in love (he ignores that Hermione is cheating with Pansy; and that Ron stares at Terry probably more than he needs to). And Remus and Tonks getting married (he ignores that Remus sometimes looks at her like he's seeing Sirius instead), and the fact that Ginny has finally moved on and started dating Neville (but he sees her eyes straying to him once in a while).

Harry is good at noticing things, and even better at ignoring them; it's how he's managed to survive the Dursleys all those years, though even he wasn't good enough to block all of their vileness out.

He has to; wants to, because if he let everything in all at once he's sure he will explode. Spontaneously combust. Melt. Whatever—something bad would happen. He can't accept that his friends are anything than what he thought they were back in first year—pure and loyal and trustworthy—because that would be too hard; and then he'd have to disown themor something.

Can't say anything about Ginny and her stares because that would hurt Neville. Neville is one of the few people in the world he doesn't have to pretend with. With Neville, it's 'what you see is what you get'; and Harry likes that.

Draco doesn't pretend to be anything but spoiled, bratty, and sarcastic, and Harry likes that too. He could've been with anyone, Ginny or Hermione or maybe Cho, but they are all fake; fake as the smiles he puts on whenever he sees them.

Draco doesn't pretend to be anything he isn't, and by doing that Harry discovers a few more things about him: how his smile, though rare, is shy and almost earnest; how he always leaves Harry secret, sweet little messages onlyHarry can find and appreciate, and how underneath all the rudeness and the snark, there really is a pretty nice person.

And he likes that.

_.finis_


	8. jealousy

**Disclaimer: **I do not own it.  
A/N: Written in about a minute. Literally. I only realized just now that it probably won't make a lot of sense, but oh well. Consider yourself a genius if you figure out what I'm trying to get across, I guess XD I haven't updated in a while because I'm working on a fic, and also an original story, and it's kinda eating up all my creativity. Sorry ;;

* * *

_jealousy_

I really hate you, Potter. I truly, truly, do.

And it's not just regular old hate, either, and it's gone far beyond even loathing. I suppose, if you think about it, what I feel for you could be defined in one of two ways: hatred, and infatuation.

But don't flatter yourself.

I am infatuated because you are living _my _life; you have _my _friends, the admiration that _I _deserve, and, to top it all off, you even fly better than me. Whenever I see you, I get huge butterflies—seems silly to call them butterflies, more like hawks—in my stomach and I have an urge to touch you, hit you, _hurt _you.

Oh yes, Potter. Jealousy is a powerful thing; more dangerous, more dominant, even than love. Because if it weren't, well. I really don't think I'd be talking about _hate_.

_.finis_


	9. seasons

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, never will be mine.  
A/N: A drabble related to the new fic I started, Seasons and Distinctions. This, I think, was the second or third version of said fic. About half-way through I decided it didn't fit the plot I had planned (plot? what plot?) and so turned it into a Draco-Malfoy-character-study. Review?

_seasons_

Draco had a thing about favorites. It, was, after all, an exercise in superiority—whether he liked this flavor than that one, or liked to wear black more than yellow, it all came down to one thing: it was about being _better_. Not that he made a big deal of it, or anything; he just liked to make distinctions. He had a favorite almost _anything_: favorite shoes, hairstyle, food, color, Quidditch position, tea…and, more recently, favorite _person _(and at that thought Draco smirked, thinking of the bumbling green-eyed black-haired walking-fashion-disaster that was his boyfriend). One thing, though, that he could not decide on, was season.

As in, what _was _his favorite season?

He was genuinely curious; after all, a great many people, when asked that question, usually had ready-made answers. Oh, I love the winter because it's so white and pretty; I love it when it's summer, because it's so hot you just _have _to go to the beach; and, the most appalling of all—I just _love _spring, because the flowers smell so nice and everything's blooming and…

Well. He was fairly certain that if he did like spring, it wouldn't be because of _that_.

_.finis_


End file.
